The Shoemaker's Wife (47 page)

As a boy, Ciro had learned how to give of himself generously in the convent. He knew how to be loyal because he had grown up with Eduardo, who taught him the nuances of what it meant to be a loving brother. Ciro had given up searching for love, hoping it would fill that deep well of regret that he still carried at having been abandoned by his mother, but he was wise enough to know that you can’t always blame your parents for your sadness. After so much rejection, and periods of emotional drift and loneliness, Ciro had finally found what was missing. He didn’t want Marco to think that he’d chosen Enza to save himself, but deep down, he believed it was true. Ciro loved Enza, but was that enough for Marco, who had put everything he was into his family? There was no building, bridge, ocean liner, or shoe with Marco Ravanelli’s name on it, just the quiet and exemplary life of a good man who lived in service to the family he created. Ciro hesitated to tell Marco what was in his heart, because he knew more than Ciro ever would about what it takes to love one woman and build a life with her.

So Ciro said, “I traveled far, Signor Ravanelli. I have never met a woman like Enza. She’s intelligent without being condescending. She’s beautiful without vanity. And she’s funny when she isn’t trying to be. I love her and will give her a good life. Your daughter encourages the best in me. When I’m with her, I’m in the presence of grace, and she makes me aspire to it.”

Marco took a moment to think about Ciro’s words. He saw that an honest young man sat before him. If Marco were completely honest, he would admit that he saw also a sadness in Ciro, one that he could not name. Marco didn’t know if that meant Ciro hadn’t made peace with the past, or if it might portend something grave in the future. He knew there was a certain seriousness about Ciro, born of a life experience that Marco himself had not endured. On the surface of things, it appeared to Marco that this was a solid match, and one that Giacomina would endorse. Ciro was from the mountain, and he knew Enza’s dialect and way of life. That accounted for something on this unexpected morning. He would find comfort in the knowledge that his daughter would marry a man who understood what she came from, and for Marco Ravanelli, this tipped his decision in Ciro’s favor.

Ciro still sat on the edge of the chair. His future and the fulfillment of all his dreams were at the mercy of another.

Marco slowly reached into his pocket and removed an envelope. He placed the envelope on the table and rested his hand upon it. He looked at Ciro. “For Enza.”

“This is not necessary,” Ciro said.

“It is to me. I am giving you permission to marry my firstborn daughter. Men hope for sons, but I will tell you that there was never a son who brought a father more joy than my Enza did for me. There are daughters and daughters, but there is only one Enza. I entrust you with my own flesh and blood. I expect you to honor that trust.”

“I will, sir.”

“Our home on the mountain was completed nearly one year ago. I could have gone home then. Instead, I stayed on to make this purse for my daughter’s dowry. It brings me contentment to know that this small sacrifice will make it easier for my daughter as she starts her new life. One year of my forty-six on this earth is a pittance compared to what she means to me.”

“I thank you, Signore. And I won’t forget how hard you worked to provide this for Enza.”

Marco rose from his chair. Ciro stood. Enza pushed the door open and peeked into the room.

“It’s all settled, Enza,” Marco said.

Enza ran to her father and put her arms around him. “Your happiness is mine,” he whispered in his daughter’s ear. “Be happy, Enza.”

Later that same night, Enza slipped down to the library in the Milbank House, striking a match to light a small work lamp on the writing table. She pulled a clean sheet of linen paper out of the desk drawer, along with a fountain pen.

November 30, 1918

Dear Signora Ramunni,

It is with a heavy heart that I resign my position as seamstress in the costume shop of the Metropolitan Opera House. I have loved every moment of my job, even when the hours were long and it seemed we might not finish a project in time for the opening night curtain. I will never forget the privilege of standing in the wings and watching as costumes we created by the labor of our own hands delight the audience through color, line, shape, drape, and form, the essential elements you taught me.

Laura and I often reminisce about the day you hired us. We thought then, as we do today, that no greater lady ever graced the opera. In every way, you made our work sing, which was always the point.

As I leave you, the staff, my coworkers, and the great singers, please know you will always be in my heart, and when I think of you, I will say a prayer of gratitude. I wish you the best in all aspects of your life, as I know no one is more deserving of happiness than you. Your generosity to me will hopefully be repaid tenfold in the years to come. Mille grazie, Signora. Auguri! Auguri!

Sincerely yours,

Enza Ravanelli
Station 3, Singer machine 17

Enza carefully placed the letter on the blotter. As the ink dried, her eyes filled with tears. This was the true meaning of sacrifice. Ciro had made a plan to start their life together in Minnesota, and Enza had agreed. Ciro had laid out the plan like a cartographer, explaining where in Minnesota they would go, and how he and Luigi planned to start their business. Enza had liked Pappina from the first moment she met her at the Zanetti’s shop so many years ago, so she knew that she would begin this journey with a good friend who would be there for her.

She had no regrets about her choice to go to Minnesota, or about marriage to Ciro, but she knew she would always pine for the Metropolitan Opera. Enza remembered sitting at this very desk and writing a letter seeking employment at the opera house. She smiled when she thought about the silly samples she had placed in the envelope, showing off her technique with beadwork and embroidery, along with Laura’s effortless stitchwork. Serafina Ramunni had overlooked Enza’s insouciance and hired them anyway. And what a glorious career path had ensued, in service to great singers and actors, who relied on the costumes they built to tell the timeless stories in song of the great operas. It was a small thing, Enza knew, and yet, it wasn’t. Their garments were part of the spectacle, and the show had been spectacular.

Enza knew what it was to stand in the pale blue edge of the spotlight, to serve the Great Voice, and now, hopeful she had made the right decision, she was more than ready to serve another, this time around: the man she loved.

Ciro Augustus Lazzari and Vincenza Ravanelli were married at Holy Rosary Church on Pearl Street in lower Manhattan on December 7, 1918. Luigi Latini served as best man, while Laura Heery was maid of honor.

Colin Chapin read the scripture. Pappina Latini laid a bouquet at the feet of the shrine of the Blessed Lady, unable to walk behind the communion rail because she was with child. Enza wore blue and carried the black leather-bound prayer book that Eduardo had given to Ciro, over which she placed a bouquet of red roses.

After the ceremony, they brought Marco to Pier 43 to board the SS
Taormina
for Naples. After the nine-day crossing, he would take the train north to Bergamo, where he would be reunited with his wife and children, who could not wait to show him the house he and Enza had made possible.

Enza stood at the foot of the gangplank to say good-bye to her father. She pulled a red rose from her bouquet, snapped off the stem, and placed it in the buttonhole of her father’s coat.

Marco remembered standing on this pier years ago, afraid that Enza had died and he would never see her again. He also remembered putting his hand in the pocket of his old boiled-wool coat and feeling a small patch of fine silk where Enza had lined the inside. This was a girl who sought in every way she could to make the world beautiful, to give comfort when it was least expected and joy where it was most needed. His heart was breaking that he could not take her home, but he knew that a good father would support her desire to build her own house and a new life with the man she loved. And so he did.

“Papa, write to me.”

“I will. And you must write to me,” he said through his tears.

“I will,” she promised, reaching into her pocket for the wedding handkerchief that Laura had made, with her initials and Ciro’s intertwined.

Marco put his arms around his daughter. She took in the scent of the tobacco and clean lemon that she had come to know as his, and held on just a moment longer until the horn sounded aboard the ship. Marco turned and went up the gangplank. As the aisle of metal was lifted and secured, Enza didn’t move from her spot on the pier. She stood and searched the layers of the decks, until she found her father and the red rose. He took off his hat and waved it in her direction. She waved good-bye to him and smiled, and knew that from this great distance, he would not be able to see her tears. And she couldn’t see his either, but she knew for sure he would not stop weeping for the loss of her for the rest of his life.

Enza joined her new husband and friends behind the fishing net that separated the pier from the docks. Ciro put his arms around Enza and held her for a long time. To her relief and delight, his embrace helped her endure what she had just lost.

Afterward, Laura, Colin, Luigi, Pappina, Enza, and Ciro celebrated their nuptials with a breakfast feast in the atrium of the Plaza Hotel under the Tiffany skylight. Ciro outlined his business plan, while Colin offered suggestions. Laura looked over at Enza, who smiled blissfully at the ring on her finger, a glistening gold signet ring with a
C
engraved upon it, which Ciro had worn since he was a boy.

There were many toasts at their table, wishes for long lives and many years of happiness. But there was one very special toast in honor of Enza’s new citizenship. Ciro’s citizenship had been awarded to him on the day he received his honorable discharge from the U.S. Army. Now, his legal wife shared in that gift. The sacrament, the vows, the ring, and the license made Enza an American at last.

The entrance to the Plaza Hotel was heated by small cast-iron ovens tucked discreetly behind velvet ropes along the red-carpeted stairs of the entry. A soft snow had begun to fall. Colin pulled Ciro, Luigi, and Pappina aside so Laura would be able to say good-bye to Enza.

“Are you happy?” Laura asked. “Don’t answer that. You’d better be, and I know you are.” Her voice broke.

“Please don’t cry.” Enza tried to reassure her. “I swear. This is not the end of anything.”

“But we had our beginning together. And I can’t imagine my life without you.” Laura fished in her purse for her handkerchief. “I don’t want you to go. It’s so selfish of me.”

“There is no way I could ever thank you for all you’ve done for me. You made me the most beautiful hats I’ll ever wear. You always split your pie with me at the Automat, even when you were very hungry. You almost killed a man for my honor with a pair of factory scissors. You gave me words. I couldn’t read or write English until I met you.”

“And I wouldn’t have been able to speak to Enrico Caruso without the Italian you taught me. So you see, we’re even.”

“Are we?” Enza cried.

“All right, maybe I pictured us together forever, and maybe someday, we will be. But I want you to know, if you need me, any time, you write to me and I’ll run to Minnesota. On foot. You understand?”

“And the same goes for me. I’ll come back when you need me,” Enza promised.

“And start writing me a letter first thing in the morning on the train. You can mail it in Chicago.”

“Come on, girls, we have to make the train,” Colin said. He loaded everyone into his Ardsley. There were a lot of laughs in the ride between Fifty-ninth Street and Penn Station—not enough to last a lifetime, but enough to have made this wedding-day departure end on a joyous and gay note.

At three o’clock that afternoon under a gray sky the color of old velvet, the Latinis and the Lazzaris arrived at Penn Station, bought four one-way tickets on the Broadway Limited, and boarded the train for Chicago, where they would transfer trains to take them to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Colin and Laura saw them off, watching until the silver train disappeared like a sewing needle into thick wool.

Ciro and Luigi were business partners. They would make shoes and repair them, just as they had on Mulberry Street, except this time, the purse would be theirs to keep.

The Caterina Shoe Company was born.

The dining car on the Broadway Limited was elegant, with polished walnut walls and leather banquettes, like a sophisticated Manhattan restaurant on wheels. The tables were dressed in starched white linen, crystal glasses, white china trimmed in green, and silverware buffed to a sparkling sheen.

Small vases with white roses were clipped to the window sashes. A series of eight booths, four on either side, with an aisle down the center, were connected to the kitchen car. The leather seats in the booths were forest green to match the china.

“I can barely fit in the booth,” Pappina said, laughing. “How long is this ride?”

“Twenty hours,” Luigi said as he adjusted the cushion on the seat to make his wife more comfortable.

Enza and Ciro slipped into the booth across from them.

“They just got married,” Luigi said to the Negro waiter.

“Congratulations,” the waiter said to Enza and Ciro. His crisp black uniform with a gold bar on the chest made him look like a general. “I’ll see you have some cake.”

Ciro kissed Enza on her cheek.

“Okay, boys. You’ve got us where you want us. We know what you’re going to do in Minnesota, but what about us? You’ll be busy very soon”—Enza smiled at Pappina, happy for the new baby—“but what am I going to do?”

“Be my wife,” Ciro said.

“I like to work. There’s no opera company in Hibbing, but I could sew for a living. After all, we’ve been living in New York City, and I could keep track of the latest fashions before they go west. I could sew some lovely dresses and coats with a Paris flair for the girls on the Iron Range.”